Walking in Death's Footsteps
by otherhawk
Summary: THRUSH seem to have created a method to compel people to suicide. This is not going to be good for Napoleon or Illya. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First off, this story does deal with suicide, so if you don't want to read about that, please give this one a miss. Thanks. Secondly, this is going to be a two part story. Hope to have the second part finished by the weekend. But we shall see.**

* * *

Alvin Whittaker rose early after a long and sleepless night. His wife, Rosemary, sleepily asked him if everything was alright, but he gave no answer. His footsteps were slow and heavy as he walked downstairs, as though each step was an effort, and he stood in the kitchen for a long moment, just staring at the coffee pot, the cheerful sound of birdsong from outside passing unnoticed.

Coffee made, he carried it through to his study. In a move that seemed to surprise him, he locked the door behind him and dropped the key into his pocket. There was a large box on his desk marked 'Preliminary Case against THRUSH', and he pulled it towards himself, half-heartedly, but he didn't even start to read. Instead he stared at the silver-framed photo on his desk for a while, Rosemary and their two children smiling out at him. His coffee grew cold at his elbow.

Then he gently placed the photo face down on his desk, opened the top drawer, pulled out his revolver and shot himself in the head.

* * *

The NYPD had already removed Alvin Whittaker's body by the time Napoleon and Illya arrived. There were still a few officers present though, mostly to keep away the press. The sudden death of a prominent district attorney was apparently newsworthy.

Their identification got them waved through with hardly more than a curious look though, and they were taken directly round to the study. From somewhere above they could hear the new widow crying inconsolably.

He hoped they wouldn't have to disturb her any more than necessary. He didn't want to add to her suffering, though all too probably nothing could make it worse. Some things were simply unbearable.

"The door was forced open when the police arrived," Illya remarked, examining it closely.

"And the only key was in Whittaker's pocket," Napoleon agreed. "The windows are too small for anyone to get through as well."

"A classic locked room mystery," Illya agreed. "However, whatever the detective stories would have us believe, that usually points to suicide."

True. The gun had been found in Whittaker's hand and there was absolutely no indication that anyone else had been in the room. And still. "The timing is more than a little suspicious, don't you think?"

"To say the least," Illya agreed, moving on to examine the files on the desk. "These appear undisturbed. I would assume any THRUSH assassin would have chosen to remove them."

Probably. For the last two months Whittaker had been working closely with UNCLE to find new legal avenues for going after elected and public officials with ties to THRUSH. Apparently he'd been going to hold meetings this week to start looking at prosecutions. The fact that now that was unlikely to happen was undoubtedly excellent news for THRUSH.

Illya picked up the picture lying flat on the desk. "He was a man at the height of his career. On the face of it, suicide seems unlikely. Especially since he had a wife and children depending on him."

"That's not always enough," Napoleon said, a little too quickly.

Illya stilled for a split second. "No," he agreed. "But perhaps this suicide had some encouragement."

Napoleon nodded – he had been wondering the same thing after all. "Blackmail, perhaps?" he suggested. "Some secret in his past that he'd rather die than have revealed?"

"I was thinking maybe a threat to his family," Illya said. "Given a choice between his principles and risking hurting them, perhaps he chose a third option."

"I can't imagine his family would agree this wasn't hurting them," Napoleon said wryly.

"Napoleon..." Illya looked at him.

He shook his head minutely. "It's fine. Either option sounds plausible, but there could be something else going on here altogether. Perhaps THRUSH has developed some new mind control process that can cause the victim to kill themselves?" He spoke doubtfully.

Illya shrugged. "Possible, I suppose. There is a particular fungus, _Ophiocordyceps unilateralis,_ that when it infects ants, causes them to climb higher than they ever would normally, grip onto a leaf, and simply wait for death, allowing the fungus to grow out of their deceased forms and release new spores."

Napoleon stared. "And is that likely to be at all relevant here, tovarisch?"

"Probably not," Illya conceded. "My point was simply that we cannot rule anything out. The self preservation instinct can be overridden."

"Right." He shook his head. "Or, I suppose, this could all be a coincidence and THRUSH had nothing to do with it." He exchanged a look with Illya; neither of them believed that for a second. "At any rate, I'm afraid we're going to need to disturb Mrs Whittaker."

Mrs Whittaker received them in her upstairs sitting room with a sombre-faced priest. The children were apparently being looked after by her sister in the room next door. This all felt too familiar.

"Mrs Whittaker," he said, shaking her hand gently. "I'm very sorry that we need to disturb you at this time."

"No, no, that's fine," she said, twisting her fingers together in her lap. "Alvin always speaks very highly of UNCLE. He says the work you do can change the world."

"That was very kind of him," Illya said carefully.

She looked at them with an intent sort of desperation. "If you're here...if you're looking into his death...does that mean...he didn't really kill himself, did he? _They_ killed him, didn't they? Didn't they?"

"Rosemary..." The priest caught hold of her hand. "Calm yourself."

"No, I need to know. Because My Alvin would never kill himself. _Never._ "

Napoleon leaned across the table and looked at her sincerely. "Mrs Whittaker, all the signs currently point to your husband's death being a suicide. However, we _are_ concerned that there may have been some undue influence in his death. That maybe he was driven to it in some way. Now, has anything unusual happened recently?"

"No," she said slowly. "Up until two days ago everything seemed...everything _was_ perfect. Alvin was so proud of the work he was doing. So happy. And then...and then..." She broke off into choked sobbing, and the priest patted her arm gently and passed her a handkerchief.

"Are all these questions really necessary, gentlemen?" he asked, glaring at them.

He wished they weren't. Right now he felt like the worst kind of jerk.

But it was Mrs Whittaker who answered for them. " _Yes,_ " she said, fierce beneath her tears. "Yes, I need to know what happened, Father. And surely if Alvin...if what he did wasn't his fault, then God will understand. Won't he?"

"God always forgives," Napoleon said immediately, glaring at the priest and just _daring_ him to say anything else.

But the priest sighed and took her hand between his. "The young man is right, my dear. God already knows what was in Alvin's heart."

"What happened two days ago?" Illya asked, after a little time had passed.

"That's the thing," she said. " _Nothing_ happened. Alvin was so happy that day, so...so alive. And then we went out to a fundraising dinner at his old alma mater and when he came back he was...I don't know. Quiet. Closed off. And it just got worse from there. He seemed to be completely withdrawn and he just...he didn't smile or laugh or even really talk anymore. I tried asking what was wrong, but he just said it was nothing. And then this morning...I should have known something was really wrong."

"It wasn't your fault," Napoleon said firmly.

"And no one said anything or did anything unusual at this fundraiser?" Illya asked.

"No." She shook her head. "I was with him the whole time. It was funny though. I remember someone saying that there had been a string of shock suicides on campus."

Hmmm. He noticed Illya picking up on that as well. That could be something significant.

They didn't hear anything else significant and they made their excuses and their apologies as gently as possible.

Somehow, walking into the bright sunshine of the crisp fall morning was a surprise. He took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air.

Illya was watching him intently.

He smiled in careless reassurance. "The college sounds like a good next step," he said. "A spate of suicides. It could be related."

"It could be," Illya agreed. "Although sadly suicides amongst students are not uncommon. I will check that out though, while you go and check with his office. It may well be that if there _was_ something disturbing in his past he will be more inclined to confide in a friend or a colleague than his wife."

Really. He looked at Illya fixedly. "And since when do you decide how we split up?"

"I am trying to keep the coeds safe from your charms," Illya said dryly.

"I'm not the one the teenagers tend to throw themselves at," Napoleon pointed out. He suspected that perhaps Illya's ulterior motives were more about keeping him from having to talk to any more grieving family and friends of suicide victims. But if Illya was okay not admitting that, then so was he. "Alright. Let me know if you find anything."

"Likewise," Illya said, lips crooked in a half smile.

* * *

It had been a long and fruitless day so far. Mrs Whittaker had been correct; there had been six suicides on the campus within the last four months and that _was_ anomalous, however he had spoken to the faculty and students who had known the victims while posing as a health educator, and it didn't look as though there was any obvious connection. None of the students had any classes in common, none of them lived in the same dorms and only one of the deaths had involved a firearm. However, significantly, none of the victims' friends thought that they had been particularly depressed or stressed. In fact, prior to their deaths, two of them had been described as happy, one having just started a new relationship, another having won a prestigious scholarship. Like Whittaker; these deaths simply didn't make sense.

He was glad Napoleon was not here. Every single person he spoke to who had known one of the victims had that same numb, lost, look in their eyes. He had rarely seen so many tears in one day – he hated that he was here, raking all of this up again. This was the sort of pain that never truly went away. But at the same time, it was beginning to look like this investigation was even more important than they had originally thought.

He could believe that Whittaker had committed suicide as a result of blackmail or coercion or some kind of pressure, but six entirely unrelated college students? No, that spoke to him of some process that THRUSH had developed, something that drove people to suicide. An unpleasant thought...and surely an almost perfect assassination method. And the students were the guinea pigs, so to speak, so they must interact somewhere. If only he could determine exactly where, he should be able to find who was doing this.

Determined, he got copies of all their schedules and likely hang-out places. Three of them regularly used the gym, but another two had never set foot in there. Two of them frequented a particular bar off campus, but another was known to be absolutely teetotal. The best link he had was a small coffee shop where four of them apparently regularly went between classes, and no one could say for certain that the other two hadn't been known to drop in.

A possibility; that was all. He ordered a cup of coffee and showed the photos of the victims around, trying to see if anyone might recognise them.

"Sorry, buddy," the barista said regretfully. "There are a lot of customers, y'know?"

Yes. It was a long shot. He sat by the window to ponder his next move when his communicator sounded. With a sigh, he leaned behind the drapes to try and avoid attention. "Kuryakin here."

"Have you found anything?" Napoleon asked.

"Possibly," he said slowly. "I think the deaths here must be connected to Whittaker, but I'm not sure what the mechanism is yet. How about you?"

"Zilch," Napoleon said unhappily. "I'm meeting a couple of his hunting buddies for a drink in an hour or so though. You really think THRUSH have developed a way to make people kill themselves? I always thought you couldn't be hypnotised to commit suicide."

He sounded incredulous. And despite his earlier words, Illya honestly wasn't so certain himself. "We have seen stranger things," he said. "Perhaps it is not hypnosis or mind control, perhaps it is something else."

"Perhaps." Napoleon paused a moment. "Just be careful, alright?"

"You as well," Illya said sincerely.

"Me?" Napoleon laughed. "My natural sunny disposition protects me. It's your sour chops that need to worry, partner mine."

"Chops?" he repeated, baffled, but Napoleon was already gone .Sometimes American slang left him cold.

"Excuse me."

Illya just managed not to jump at the sudden voice. He honestly hadn't heard the small, nondescript man approach, but there he was, standing right over him, cleaning his glasses nervously.

"Yes?" he asked, neutrally.

"I, um, heard that you're investigating the suicides?" the man asked.

"Investigating is too strong a word," he said. "I am gathering information for a study on suicides among young people, with a view to finding new methods of prevention. Did you know any of the victims, Mr...?"

"Dr," he said. "Dr Philip Boothby. I'm a lecturer here." He started to hold out his hand but realised he was holding some files, and, flustered, he dropped them to the ground.

Illya obligingly bent to pick them up, reading the headings. Hmmm. "You work in the pharmacology department?"

"Oh, yes, that's right," Boothby said, putting his hands in his pocket awkwardly. "Um, sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Nicholas Kilby," Illya said. "You must have known one of the victims then, a Sarah Dearing? She was a senior studying pharmacology."

"Oh, no," Boothby said quickly. "Well, she was in one of my classes, but I never actually talked to her in particular, you know? But her death certainly shook me up. I wanted to get your opinion on another couple of students in my class I've been worried about...?"

"That's not really my area," Illya said hastily. "Perhaps you should talk to the school counsellor?"

"Maybe you're right," Boothby said with a sigh. "Still, it's difficult not to worry about the children, isn't it? Oh, well, I should leave you in peace. It was nice meeting you though."

"Likewise," Illya agreed politely. He drank his coffee as Dr Boothby left. There was no sign of anything in the coffee shop. He really needed to go on to check out the details of the fundraiser. After all, whatever had happened to Whittaker had happened there.

Still he found himself lingering in the coffee shop a few minutes longer. It had been a very long day and he was feeling tired and drained. Any assignment with this many emotions running through it was always exhausting. And he was worried about Napoleon as well; this wasn't an easy case for him. He'd seen his partner's face when they'd been confronted with the grieving widow, there had been too much familiar there.

Why, no matter what they did, did bad things always continue to happen to innocent people?

The day seemed colder when he stepped outside. It was going to be a long, hard winter, he thought. Already, summer seemed barely more than a memory.

He walked through the campus, absently watching the students who walked past. They all seemed so young, and so bright and cheerful. He didn't know that he'd ever been that young – he knew he had never been that cheerful. Life had left its grimy mark on him long before he was grown. He had been born in the dead of winter, in the middle of the night, and sometimes he thought that darkness had crept its way inside his soul and made itself at home.

And someone was using these young people to test their weapon on. He pressed his lips together in disgust; it wasn't right. But even if they found out who and put a stop to this scheme, there would be another one, and another and another.

They were Sisyphus, condemned to endlessly push a boulder up a mountain, always able to see the way to the top, but never quite succeeding. THRUSH had more people than they did, more resources...they were everywhere and they would do the things that UNCLE would never dare, and it was all UNCLE could do to keep level with them, never mind defeating them in any lasting, meaningful way.

And suppose they did win? Suppose they did push that heavy boulder to the top of this unclimbable mountain; what then? Something or someone else would no doubt arise out of the ashes. There would always be someone who wanted to bring his fellow man down so he could rise to the top, that was simply human nature and that did not change. And that wasn't even taking into consideration the insane folly of world leaders, desperate to submerge the world in unwinnable war. Men like him would be in this hopeless, fruitless struggle against human nature, bruised and bleeding, until the day they died.

Indescribably weary, he took a seat on a stone bench and looked out over the street beyond. He couldn't help but wonder why he bothered. He had been hurt oh, so many times. He'd long lost count of the number of times he had been injured and near death. He'd long lost count of the number of people whose deaths he was responsible for. Not all of them had deserved what they had received. For the state he had been one more weapon they wielded; could he honestly say that he was really any more than that for UNCLE?

What did he have to show for all the death and pain he had brought to the world, after all? A one bedroom apartment, a collection of mismatched furniture and few friends. No family. No one waiting for him at home. If he died today, there truly would be nothing to say that he had mattered.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. No. No, he didn't have the time to sit and indulge in self-pity. What was wrong with him today? He needed to go and check out the people who had organised the fundraiser.

A couple of teenagers walked past, and he turned to watch them. That girl there, with the honey-blonde hair. She looked like Tania, his sister. She must be around fifteen – the age Tania was when she died. Tania would have been in her late thirties now, old enough to have a teenager of her own.

He tried to imagine what she would look like grown, but when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the way she looked the last time he had seen her, face bruised and bloated, throat slit, her dress torn almost in two.

He remembered, and he remembered the face of the man who had killed her, and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, trying to drive the thoughts away.

She had died, as everyone had died. And he had stood and watched, and he hadn't been able to save her. If she had lived and he had died, wouldn't that have been better? Truly? She had always said she wanted to be a musician and he remembered her dancing around their little apartment before the war, playing on Papa's battered old violin. The music had sounded like birdsong and her laughter had been sunshine. The neighbours would come by, sometimes, just to hear her play.

Perhaps she could have found her way out of the life they were born into, just like he had, only instead of walking through his darkness, she could have brought birdsong and sunshine into the world.

Or perhaps, if she had lived, she would be working in some factory now as the state demanded, a mother five, six times over and aged before her time. He remembered what Stalin demanded. Russian women were called to be mothers and nothing else.

But Mama and Papa would still have wanted her to live. They would be ashamed, if they saw him here, ashamed of what he had become. They would call him traitor, he knew, for living outside the USSR, for working with Americans, for calling them friends. They had lived through famine and war and oppression, and they still believed that the glorious Socialist Revolution held all the answers, and that everything Comrade Stalin did was correct. And his gentle Mama, if she saw him with his gun in his hand, she would probably wish that he had died along with her at Babi Yar.

Perhaps he wished he had as well. He was so tired. And there was no escape from his life; if he tried to leave UNCLE he would be back with the KGB or he would be dead.

Imagine death. Just darkness and peace. Forever. No more fight, no more pain...no more living.

The gun was a gentle pressure against his body, just reminding him of its presence.

Suddenly he was frightened. No. No, this wasn't right. This wasn't him. His mind was fogged with guilt and misery and bleak despair, and it was his, but it wasn't _him._

He stumbled to his feet and headed out into the street, not absolutely sure where he was going, just certain he had to move or he would die.

A garbage truck was stopped at the kerb. He fumbled with his gun, pulling it from its holster and tossing it away into the back of the truck like it was burning him. He had to...he _wasn't_ going to die. Not now. Not like this.

His hands were shaking as he reached for his communicator. "Open Channel D," he managed, and it was an age before he heard Napoleon answer. "Napoleon?" he said, his voice sounding strange and far away. "I am in trouble."

"What's wrong?" Napoleon asked sharply, and that was concern in his voice, worry, and Illya was responsible for that, he was making Napoleon miserable and that was one more thing to add to the darkness.

"I..." He didn't know how to explain. "You were right. I was the one who should worry. I have thrown my gun away but I can't...everything is _wrong._ Please."

"Are you still on campus?" Napoleon asked. "Stay where you are. I'll be there soon."

There was traffic on the street. Moving fast. How easy would it be to just fall beneath a car. That wouldn't even really be his fault, would it? Accidents happen all the time. "Nyet," he said hoarsely. If he stayed still he would have nothing to do but think, and left alone with his thoughts, he would die. "Я должен продолжать двигаться."

He heard Napoleon say something else, the alarm in his voice coming across loud and clear, but he wasn't listening anymore.

He had to keep moving. He had to stay alive.

* * *

Napoleon cursed to himself as he ran, paying no attention to the people he was barging past, intent on one thing and one thing only; finding Illya. If only they hadn't decided to split up. If they'd been certain that this was a weapon and not simply blackmail, he would have insisted they take more precautions. He should have known better.

Illya wasn't at the campus. He activated the direction finder on his communicator, homing in on the signal, and his heart sank as he realised it led in the direction of the river. Oh, God no.

He didn't slow down. The desperation and despair he'd heard in Illya's voice had frightened him – he'd never heard his partner sound like that before. And when he reached the river and the bridge and finally spotted Illya, walking slowly from a small patch of woodland directly onto the bridge, he was at once both relieved and terrified.

"Illya!" he shouted.

Illya didn't look round, but he sped up, jogging down the bridge.

Napoleon ran, shoving his communicator into his pants pocket, but he was still far back and he'd been running for a while – if it came to a flat sprint, he couldn't hope to catch his faster partner. "Illya, wait!"

Reaching the middle of the bridge, Illya at once vaulted the railings and stood balanced on the edge and Napoleon was almost there, almost.

"Wait!" he called out again, his voice thick with the urgency. "Listen to me Illya, you know you don't want to do this. This isn't you, it's THRUSH, remember? You called me, you threw away your gun because you didn't want to die. You're not thinking clearly."

Illya turned round slowly and looked at him and Napoleon had to bite back the exclamation at the expression on his face. Exhausted. Empty. "I am," he said flatly. "Whatever that drug was, it has let me see things clearly for the first time. Calling you was a mistake, Napoleon, I'm sorry."

"You don't want to die," he insisted frantically. He could hear people stopping behind him, the worried murmurs a needless distraction.

"I do not wish to live," Illya told him. "Goodbye, Napoleon."

"No!" Napoleon took a step forward.

Illya took a step back and quietly disappeared from sight.

Napoleon sprinted towards the edge of the bridge, tearing off his jacket as he ran, and he didn't hesitate for a second before vaulting the railing and diving headfirst into the swirling river below.

Hitting the water was a shock of pain and cold, but he didn't let it slow him down for a second as he kicked off his shoes and started swimming to find Illya. His eyes stung as he peered through the murky water, searching, searching until his lungs were burning and he had to kick up to the surface for a mouthful of precious air before he dived straight down again.

He had to find Illya. He had to. Illya had called him for help. He wasn't going to let his friend down.

Finally, he spotted a dark shape in the water below him and he swam with desperate hope, and the relief when he realised that it was Illya was overwhelming. He ripped away Illya's jacket, the pockets filled with stones, and kicked out for the surface, his arm wrapped securely around Illya's chest.

When they broke into fresh air he heard Illya coughing and spluttering and he breathed a sigh of relief. Not dead. Right now, that was all he asked for, but Illya's face was still too pale, his lips colourless. "You know," he said conversationally, just because he really had to say _something._ "I've got a good mind to make you pay for this suit."

Illya said nothing, his eyes closed.

He struck out for shore, towing Illya behind him. His arms and legs were already aching and it felt like hours before he managed to pull them both up onto the muddy shore, making Illya as comfortable as he could.

Miracle of miracles, his communicator was still in his pocket and despite being waterlogged, still worked. He called Mr Waverly at once.

"Ah, Mr Solo, I've been waiting for one of you to report in. What have you found out?"

His hands were shaking, he realised absently. Must be the cold. "It appears that THRUSH have developed a drug that can compel a man to commit suicide," he said, his voice blank and steady. "Mr Kuryakin just threw himself off a bridge."

There was a long pause. "And Mr Kuryakin...?" Mr Waverly asked at last with a sort of leaden delicacy.

"Alive but unconscious, sir," Napoleon said. "I'd appreciate a medical team be dispatched immediately."

"At once, Mr Solo," Mr Waverly agreed. "Get back here and I'll wait for your report."

"Guess all we have to do now is wait," he told Illya lightly, sitting down beside his unconscious friend. "You know, back when I was in grade school, I had this teacher – Miss Arnold – who used to say 'If your friend jumped off a bridge, would you jump in too?' The answer was supposed to be no. I guess I can finally tell her it's supposed to be yes." He laughed, far harder than the joke required.

Illya had jumped in the river, weighed down with stones. If Napoleon hadn't got there in time, Illya would be dead by his own hand. The thought was a nightmare.

"Napoleon?" Illya's voice was hoarse and uncertain. "Where are we?"

Napoleon jumped slightly. "By the river," he said, watching Illya carefully. "What do you remember?"

"I was on the college campus," Illya said. "Then nothing." He sat up slowly, looking round at Napoleon and Napoleon didn't trust the light in his eyes. It wasn't natural.

"Well, you just took a dive into the river, partner mine," he said.

Illya's face registered surprise, but it was a token effort. "Oh. Well, the shock of the cold water must have been enough to snap me out of it."

"Must have been," Napoleon agreed, still not convinced. "UNCLE are sending a medical team. Don't try to stand up, you were underwater for a while before I reached you."

"I'm fine," Illya said predictably and that at least sounded familiar. He stretched slightly. "You know - " Without warning, he lunged towards Napoleon, punching him squarely in the face.

Whatever Napoleon had been expecting it wasn't that, and he lost precious moments before he could react, and Illya was scrambling over him, reaching for his shoulder holster. "No!" he said, shoving Illya back, and Illya hit him again and grabbed the gun and for a moment they were wrestling for it in the mud, but he slipped and Illya bit his arm, and suddenly Illya was standing, the gun in his hand.

"Put it down," Napoleon ordered, scrambling to his feet, his eyes locked on Illya's.

"You should have left me in the river," Illya said, regret showing on his face. "That would have been kinder. For both of us."

"Why are you doing this?" Napoleon tried desperately. "Illya, listen to me. I know this isn't you."

"It is me," Illya said, that light in his eyes burning far too bright. "Napoleon, you do not know all the things that I have done. You do not know all the things that I have seen. This is the only way out." He brought Napoleon's gun up towards his head, and that was a sight Napoleon had never thought to see.

"I loaded it with darts today," he said desperately.

Illya gave a dark, crooked smile. "Do you really want your last words to me to be a lie, my friend?" His finger tightened infinitesimally on the trigger.

Friendship. That was what he had to fight with. "Wait!" he said, holding his hands up, and thankfully Illya paused, looking at him. He took a deep breath. "You know my father put a gun in his mouth when I was sixteen," he said. "That's in my file, as is the fact that I was the one who found him. What isn't in my file – what I've never told _anyone_ before – is that I saw it happen. I saw him die. " He had Illya's full attention now, but the gun was still held against Illya's temple. If he made a move, Illya would have pulled the trigger before he could reach him. "I never told anyone back then because I was afraid they'd blame me for not stopping him. I begged him not to...but he didn't listen. I still have nightmares about it sometimes." He bit his lip. "Are you really going to make me watch my best friend die in the same way?"

There was hesitation in Illya's eyes now. "Turn around then," he ordered ridiculously.

Napoleon gave a terse smile. "No."

"Very well." Illya nodded and took a step backwards. "Stay right there."

"No," he said again simply, taking a couple of steps forward. "If you're going to do this, you're going to need to do it with me watching, and you're going to need to know that it will destroy me."

"Napoleon..." Illya screwed his eyes shut for a second, and then sighed. "If you try to follow me, I will shoot you."

"No you won't," he said with perfect confidence, taking another half step forwards.

"I do not want to, but I will," Illya promised, pointing the gun vaguely at Napoleon.

That was what he'd been waiting for. What he'd been hoping for. He threw himself forwards, grabbing for the gun, and like he'd thought, Illya didn't even try to shoot him, instead trying to quickly bring the gun back towards himself, and when that didn't work, trying to overpower Napoleon. But he was trying not to hurt his friend, and right now Napoleon had no such qualms. Brutally, he dislocated Illya's wrist, bringing his arm behind his back and snatching the gun from fingers that could no longer retain their grip. He forced Illya to the ground and tore his own tie off, using it to quickly tie Illya's hands behind his back.

Illya was breathing hard and looking up at him with an expression of betrayal.

Napoleon sank to the ground beside him. "I'm going to fix this," he promised. "I'm going to make this right."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: And here is the final part. Same warnings apply as previous chapters, though come to think of it, if you were warned away by them, I can't imagine why you'd be reading this chapter...**

* * *

Napoleon stayed in the shower for longer than he normally would, making sure that all the grime from the river was thoroughly washed away. And he took his time getting dressed to be certain that he looked just as immaculate in the spare suit he kept in the office as he normally would. Others might tease him for his attention to his personal appearance, but at times like this, it was armour. There was little he could do about his burgeoning black eye, and the spectacular bruising down his face. Illya had really hit him hard.

He tried not to admit that he was hiding.

His hands gripped the sink tightly as he looked at himself in the mirror, struggling to think past the white noise in his head. Illya had tried to kill himself. Twice. And the second time he'd used Napoleon's gun...he'd taken Napoleon's gun and right in front of him he'd...he'd...

Damnit.

He took a couple of deep breaths and met the eyes of his reflection, making sure none of the inner turmoil showed through. Good. Straightening his tie, he walked out of the shower block, towards medical, taking care to make his steps light. Some days he was untouchable.

No one stopped him which was good. He wasn't sure he was up to offering the lines of careless flirt right now. He'd stayed with Illya through the journey, watching unhappily as Illya made a pretence at docility, refusing to even talk to Napoleon. The medical team had looked askance at his bound hands, evidently silently questioning if it was really necessary, right up until the second Illya's hands were untied in order to set his wrist, and he'd made a lunge straight towards the drugs trolley. It was only because Napoleon had been expecting it that he'd managed to haul him back and, with assistance, get him onto the bed for the staff to restrain.

He'd told them to make sure the straps were tight.

He stopped outside the room, looking through the observation window, standing far enough back that Illya wouldn't be able to see him even if he looked up – which he didn't. Seemingly, he was intent on pulling at the restraints around his wrists in an endless loop of testing at them, trying to pull them loose. There was an expression of calculated concentration on his face. Napoleon shivered. He'd seen that look many times before. He didn't know what was going through Illya's head right now and maybe he was afraid to find out.

"Can't you sedate him," he asked the nurse – Cindy, he'd taken her out once or twice as he remembered.

She looked at him sympathetically. "Sorry, Napoleon. Dr Meadows is afraid anything we could give him might interact with whatever he's been given. We don't want to risk making this worse.

Worse. Right. How could this be _worse?_

It wasn't like he'd never considered the possibility that he might lose his partner. In this life of theirs that was always on the table, for both of them. And as much as he worked to ensure it would never happen, he knew that there might come a day when the demands of the mission meant he might need to sacrifice Illya's life for the good of the world, and as much as he hated the idea, he also accepted it with the same equanimity with which he accepted the possibility of his own death.

This though...this was something else. Watching Illya destroy himself – he hadn't prepared for that, and he wasn't so sure he could accept it. Suicide was a senseless waste of a life, and he hated that his friend was helpless in the face of whatever had been implanted in his mind.

"Are you going to go in and sit with him for a while?" Cindy asked expectantly.

He took a step back unthinkingly. Normally he would, as she knew. And Illya looked alone and more fragile than Napoleon had ever seen him. "I've got a meeting with Mr Waverly," he said hastily. "I should get going. I just wanted to see that he was..." _Safe._ "Alright."

With one last long look, he turned and walked away.

* * *

He was aware of Napoleon hesitating outside the door and then walking away. It hurt, but he wasn't surprised. This was just the last in a long line of ways he had hurt Napoleon and he couldn't blame his friend for finally deciding to wash his hands of him. He screwed his eyes shut as those memories battered at his mind. Everything from little trivial incidents of mockery and aggravation that had seemed funny at the time – stealing Napoleon's wallet in line at the deli, that time during the Girls of Navarone affair when he had chosen not to divulge that the formula was a failure, times when he had left Napoleon to explain the details of a failed assignment to Mr Waverly – to the really significant times when he had let Napoleon down – when he had not been fast enough or sharp enough to save his partner, when Napoleon had needed to risk himself to rescue him, when Napoleon had been _hurt_ because of _him._

Napoleon might disagree for all the conventional reasons, but the truth was he would be better off without Illya. Once Illya was dead he would move on. It wasn't like there would be a shortage of sympathetic shoulders for him to cry on. Heh. The death of a partner was probably good for a dozen dates at least. And after all, he could easily find a new partner.

This was better. And Napoleon surely had to realise that sooner or later Illya would get out of here and the next time there would be no one to stop him.

Whatever drug Boothby had given him, it had lifted the clouds from his eyes. He could see clearly now how things really were. How _he_ really was.

Napoleon – the doctors – might still be talking as though they thought he was deluded, but he knew the truth. All these thoughts, all these feeling, all these memories – they were coming from him, not the drug. That had simply been a gateway.

The restraints were too tight for him to pull his hands out. He kept pulling at them anyway. The cuffs were soft, supple leather, thoughtfully padded so as not to cause injury, but still he could feel the constant pressure and friction start to leave a mark, and his newly relocated wrist ground painfully. Unfortunately there was no way he would be able to cause any lasting damage to himself this way, but even just the attempt calmed the clamour in his head some.

He really hated being here. More than usual. The restraints, the blood tests, the looks above his head - no matter how much he tried to tell them that as long as he was conscious and rational they couldn't keep him here against his will, nor treat him without his consent, they just ignored him until eventually he refused to speak to them altogether.

There had been a girl when he'd been young. Valentina Ivanovna. He'd been fifteen, a lonely child of the state. She'd been four years older and she'd believed in freedom, liberty and love, and she'd introduced him to the last in her attic, listening to forbidden music, reading forbidden music, and making love for hours on a pile of old coats. Her voice had always been too loud. She had spoken up once too often for what was right, and they'd called her mad and taken her away, and when she came back a year later, her head had been shaven and her hands shook and when he looked at her he couldn't see anyone looking back. She hadn't recognised him. Sometimes death was kinder.

He hadn't saved her. He'd let her go, hadn't spoken up in her defence, because he'd been fifteen, powerless and weak. If only he'd known then that his life was worthless a hundred times he might have thrown it away and it might have meant something to someone.

He was a coward. He was a killer. He deserved to die, and he was going to. Soon.

* * *

Mr Waverly fixed him with a long look of consideration as he walked in. He returned it evenly, all untidy emotion locked away. "Good evening, Mr Solo," he said as he sat down. "How is Mr Kuryakin?"

"Quiet, for the moment, sir," he answered as though that somehow meant something. "Good evening," he added, nodding to the other two people in the room – Dr Meadows from medical and Dr Rachel Weir from the lab. "What do we know so far?"

"Very little that you yourself didn't tell us," Mr Waverly said.

"I've taken samples from Mr Kuryakin's blood for the lab," Dr Meadows said. "And I've been in touch with the NYPD pathologist to take samples from Alvin Whittaker. If this is a drug, it's not like any of the ones that I've seen THRUSH use before. It doesn't seem to have created a compulsion towards suicide so much as driven him into a state of mind where suicide seems the only possibility. He was attempting to use medical ethics to argue that I should release him so he could end his life. The obvious aside, he appeared to be quite rational and himself."

"That fits with what I saw," Napoleon agreed. "He knew who he was and who I was – he even knew he had been drugged – and he did try to avoid hurting me."

They gazed at the bruises on his face. "It doesn't exactly look like he tried very hard," Dr Meadows said with a grimace of sympathy.

That hadn't been precisely what he meant. "If I could reliably win in a physical fight against Illya that easily, the betting ring in the ladies locker room wouldn't have so many takers every time we spar," he said dryly.

"Oh!" Rachel blinked. "We, ah, didn't think you knew about that."

"Yes, well." Mr Waverly cleared his throat. "What have you found out so far Dr Weir?"

"It's definitely a drug of some kind, but it seems to be made up of several different compounds and I haven't been able to fully isolate any of them yet," Rachel said apologetically. "I've got several tests running simultaneously as we speak, but honestly this is going to take time. And I can't be certain whether or not I'm going to be able to produce a cure when I'm finished."

"But if it's a drug, eventually it will wear off, right?" he asked. "Once it's out of his system, I mean."

"Napoleon..." Rachel looked at him sympathetically. "We don't know exactly how this drug works, but it must be wreaking havoc on Mr Kuryakin's brain chemistry. I don't know that it's going to wear off."

"And if this carries on too long I'm afraid that Mr Kuryakin's brain may be permanently damaged," Meadows added unhappily. "I suspect he must have been given an extremely high dose given how quickly he succumbed compared to Whittaker."

Maybe. But a dark part of Napoleon's soul remembered past days of moodiness and melancholy and wondered if perhaps Illya had just been more susceptible.

"A most despicable weapon," Mr Waverly said. "One, Mr Solo, that you need to find and stop before THRUSH can make further use of it. Mr Kuryakin was aware of having been drugged you say, perhaps he is aware of who it was that drugged him."

Right. His mouth was dry. "Of course, sir." He hesitated. "I think it would be a good idea to set up a guard on Mr Kuryakin," he said.

"He's in restraints," Dr Meadows pointed out.

Napoleon smiled darkly. "If Illya wasn't good at escaping, neither of us would still be alive."

* * *

This time he didn't hesitate outside the door, he walked right in and stood by the head of the bed. "How are you feeling?" he asked and he winced inside – his voice was too sympathetic and too distant. Not the way he should speak to his best friend.

Illya looked at him, his eyes dulled and haunted. "Let me go, Napoleon." He pulled at the restraints meaningfully. "Let me out of here."

"You know I can't do that, right now," Napoleon said, his heart breaking.

"I have to die," Illya said intently. "It is what I want. I deserve - "

" - that's the drug talking," he reminded him. "Not you. You don't really think that."

Except that didn't really matter, did it? Because drug or not, this was what Illya was feeling and the shuttered misery on his face told its own story. "Everyone who cares about me dies."

"I'm still here," Napoleon reminded him fiercely. "I'm still alive."

"For how long?" Illya demanded darkly.

"I'm alive because of you," he said.

Illya turned his face away. "You should have let me die as I wished."

"That's never going to happen," he tried. "Illya, I'm going to find a cure. I know that right now you feel like everything is...I can't even imagine. But this is all just temporary. You're going to get better."

"And if I do not?" Illya asked, pulling against the restraints like he was trying to sit up. "If I am condemned to feel like this forever, what will you do? Will you keep me chained to this bed for the rest of my life? Will you send me to some sanatorium somewhere to live out the rest of my days in a straitjacket? Will you send me back to the Soviet Union? If you tell them this is drug-induced, my government would doubtless be extremely happy to conduct experiments to see just how it works."

He didn't let himself think about any of that. "I'm going to find a cure," he said again.

Illya slumped back. "Why should you want to?" His eyes flickered briefly to Napoleon's face. "I hurt you."

Napoleon chose to take that as just being about the punch. "Not your fault," he said, and he nodded towards the brace around Illya's wrist. "Besides, I hurt you worse. I think in the circumstances, we both get a pass on the friendship score."

He wasn't certain Illya was entirely listening. "If you knew of all the things I have done, all the things I have seen, you would have left me in the river."

"None of us have clean hands, tovarisch," he pointed out gently.

"You know, making it look like suicide is favoured assassination technique of KGB," Illya told him. "I remember there was a man...he was in favour with some among the party, but my superiors did not care for him. I pushed him in front of train and it was ruled a suicide. He knew it was coming. I remember he begged me for his life. He had two young children, you know."

He listened to the thickening tones of the accent, and thought there was truth there, but not the whole truth. Either Illya was holding back some details or else the influence of the drug was making him gloss over them in his head. Whatever the case, the memory was obviously causing his friend considerable pain. "You did what you had to do," he said carefully. "What you were told to do."

"I enjoyed it." The answer came with cold, clinical detachment.

And paradoxically, that made everything so much simpler. "Then I have no doubt he deserved what happened," he said with absolute faith. "Because I know _you._ Even if you don't right now."

For a second there was a look of uncertainty in Illya's eyes. "I...that does not matter. It was murder." He shook his head. "Why are you even here, Napoleon?"

He sighed and dropped onto the chair beside the bed. "I need to know who drugged you, Illya. So I can stop this and find a cure for you."

"There is no cure for me," Illya said immediately. "None save death."

He let the weight of the dramatic words wash over his head knowing they would come back to him in the small hours when he was alone. "You _do_ know."

Illya gazed at him impassively. "And what will you give me for knowledge?"

He understood at once. "No."

"You are right," he said, a trace of that crooked smile apparent on his face. "You do need to stop this. So no one else dies like Whittaker."

" _Or_ you," Napoleon insisted. "You can't say that you deserve it but Whittaker didn't."

"It is not same thing," Illya said dismissively. "Whittaker had a lot to live for."

 _And you don't?_ He was afraid of the answer. Afraid of being told once again that he was not enough for the people he cared about.

"I am not asking you to hand me your gun, Napoleon," Illya said in answer to his silence." Just loosen these straps a little and walk away and I will tell you what you need to know."

"That's quite enough," Mr Waverly said authoritatively. Napoleon hadn't even heard their boss approach, but there he was, standing in the doorway. "Mr Kuryakin, we do not negotiate with our agents for intelligence, no matter what the circumstances. Now, tell me, who is responsible for this?" Illya hesitated, and Mr Waverly added "That's a direct order, Mr Kuryakin," in a tone that brooked no arguments. Napoleon hated how cold he sounded.

But Illya's expression shifted into one of exhaustion and defeat. "Dr Philip Boothby," he said grudgingly. "A pharmacology professor. He approached me, asked if I was investigating the deaths. He distracted me and I let him drug my coffee. Stupid, stupid, stupid." He dug his fingernails viciously into his palms and Napoleon could see the red dots of blood. He grabbed Illya's fingers automatically, holding them still so he couldn't hurt himself.

"Hardly that, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly said in a far more gentle tone. He nodded at Napoleon and left the room.

Napoleon squeezed Illya's fingers lightly. "I'll be back soon," he promised. "I told you I told you I'm going to fix this."

"I cannot be fixed."

Mr Waverly was waiting for him outside. "It occurred to me that as you said Mr Kuryakin was otherwise rational, he might respond better to orders."

Rather than kindness and reason. Yes. He had. That didn't mean Napoleon liked it. "I'll go and find this Boothby and put a stop to him. "

"Yes," Mr Waverly said. "And please, do try and find a cure for Mr Kuryakin."

"Yes, sir," he said. He would. The alternative was unthinkable.

* * *

Boothby's lab was completely cleaned out when Napoleon got there, a fact which seemed to take the other staff working late in the building by surprise. Questioning them led to the revelation that Boothby was very dedicated but kept to himself and no one really knew what he was working on. Sometimes Napoleon thought they should have all quiet, secretive scientists on a watchlist.

At least he was certain now that Illya had been correct about who had done this to him, particularly when he discovered that Boothby had indeed been at the same fundraiser as Whittaker. He'd have had ample opportunity to administer the drug.

He made a thorough search of the lab and the wider department, and then acquired Boothby's home address from the office and headed there, hoping that maybe there was something, some clue as to the formula or the name of Boothby's THRUSH contact. But nothing turned up. It didn't even look as if he'd been home tonight. Maybe when he'd realised Illya was asking questions he'd really panicked. Gone into hiding.

Instinct told him Boothby wasn't deep in the hierarchy. The fact he had still been working in the college suggested that. Perhaps Whittaker had been a sort of audition piece – a proof that the formula worked. In which case THRUSH might well now be welcoming Boothby into the fold. But that didn't give him anymore answers as to where the man was.

He heard again Illya's voice asking him what they should do if this didn't wear off. Was he really prepared to agree that Illya should stay restrained and locked up in some sanatorium for the rest of his life? But then, what was the alternative?

No. There would be something. Some intelligence report, some lead that would tell him where to start looking. And even if there wasn't, eventually the lab would come up with a cure. He had to believe that.

The sun was starting to rise as he started to head back to headquarters, giving the sky a soft, pinkish hue. He hesitated – it was early, maybe unforgivably so, but there was something else he should do. A detour he should make, and he knocked on Mrs Whittaker's door gently, not surprised when she opened the door almost immediately, her clothes and the shadows under her eyes making it clear she hadn't slept. He doubted she'd tried.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so early," he began.

"No, don't worry about it, Mr Solo," she said tiredly. "Do know have news? Do you want to come in?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, I can't stay. I just wanted to let you know we've found evidence that your husband was under the influence of a THRUSH drug when he died. I'm sorry."

"And that made him kill himself?" she asked, her voice trembling. "It wasn't...he didn't want to leave us?"

"I'm sure that was the last thing he wanted," he assured her gently.

"God." She closed her eyes, swaying slightly. "I've been so _angry_ with him."

Yes. He knew that feeling. "He would have had no way to resist," he said. "He was murdered."

She clapped her hand to her mouth. "Is it wrong that helps? I...he's still dead."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You said he wouldn't be able to resist...how did you know?" A small frown creased her brow. "Have there been other victims?"

"Some students were experimented on," he said reluctantly. He didn't tell her about Illya. She didn't need to know.

"They're dead? How awful." She paused, looking at him. "Thank you, Mr Solo. At least I can grieve for Alvin now without being so angry with him."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

As he drove back to headquarters he wondered; was he angry with Illya? Yes, he admitted to himself. He couldn't help but think that Illya should have been able to resist the effects of the drug. He'd known what it was, what it did. Napoleon knew how stubborn and strong-willed his partner was, and even though he knew it was completely unfair, he couldn't help feeling that maybe Illya hadn't fought this off because he hadn't tried hard enough. Because maybe hadn't _wanted_ to try. Completely unfair and the thought made him angry with himself.

That wasn't even about Illya, that was about his father and that was a whole can of worms he didn't even need to think about right now. The situations couldn't – _shouldn't –_ be compared. Illya had called him for help. Illya had thrown his gun away and called him for help because he'd wanted Napoleon to save him. And he was going to, just like any other time his partner needed him. Anger had no place here.

* * *

Illya was careful not to look at Brennan. Paying too much attention to the guard was always suspicious. Guard. He was under guard at headquarters. This was insane; he had given his life to this organisation and now that he had a wish to take it back and end it for himself, they went to the trouble of guarding him to prevent it? Napoleon's idea no doubt. He wasn't angry. Anger required an energy he could no longer find within himself. He was simply – tired.

The clock on the wall told him that it was still four hours till the end of Brennan's shift, but for the past hour Brennan had been shifting uncomfortably in his seat. There was an opportunity here, if he could find a way to take it, and when the nurse came in he softly asked her if she could pour him a glass of water.

"Oh! Certainly," she said.

The moment the tinkling sound of running water began, Brennan was on his feet. "Uh, do you mind staying with him for a few minutes?" he asked the nurse hastily. "Just until I get back, I won't be long. He's been quiet anyway."

"Of course," she said, like it was nothing.

And here was the opportunity. No one was supposed to use the patient bathrooms in medical but patients for infection control reasons, so Brennan would have to walk to the other side of the block. He'd be gone four minutes at least. Still, Illya would need to work fast.

He looked up at the nurse shyly through lowered lashes, projecting unthreatening vulnerability in every line of body language at his disposal. "Excuse me, Emma, isn't it?"

"That's right," she said, with a smile of pity that made Illya despise himself even more. "Is there something you need, Mr Kuryakin?"

"I wonder if you could loosen these restraints?" he asked earnestly. "They are really very sore and I am having difficulty sleeping from the pain. I am very tired."

She took a sharp breath. "I really can't do that, Mr Kuryakin," she said, but with her fine medical instincts, she was checking his wrists and her lips thinned at the sight of the skin he'd scraped away. "These are clearly too tight though," she agreed. "When Mr Brennan gets back, I'll have a word with him and with the doctor, okay? We want you to be comfortable."

"Brennan will say no," he said at once. "He does not care for Soviets. He told me that here in chains and under guard was the only way I should have been permitted in headquarters in the first place." And that was an unforgivable slur on the character of a man who had been nothing but friendly and professional towards him but then, if Illya were a good person he would not be so eager to die, would he? He twisted away as if in awkward embarrassment, but out of the corner of his eye he could still see her eyes soften. Good. He had her. "Please," he said intently, offering her a small, crooked smile. "Being restrained like this brings back a lot of unpleasant memories for me. I...I am _trying_ but this is not making it easy."

"Alright," she said decidedly. "I'll loosen them, but only a little. And just make sure not to tell anyone, okay?"

"It will be our secret," he promised truthfully as she slackened the straps. And then, as she turned away to check his chart, it was a matter of a few seconds of agony to pull his wrists through the restraints, and when she turned back he was already unfastening the straps on his feet.

"Wait!" she started, but, he had already grabbed her, covering her mouth in an easy movement.

"Sorry," he said regretfully. "I really have no wish to get you in trouble, but I'm afraid that neither of us have been left with much choice." He pulled her over to the supply drawers and managed to cover her mouth and bind her wrists and ankles with surgical tape, before placing her gently in the chair.

And that would be four minutes. He waited behind the door, and the moment Brennan stepped back inside, he rendered him unconscious with a quick, efficient, karate chop to the neck and closed the door neatly behind him so no one would suspect anything was wrong, and then locking it and carefully disabling the lock so that even if they _did,_ he wouldn't be disturbed in time.

Still, he wouldn't have long. It would need to be something fast. He went back to the drawers, dug out a tracheotomy kit and pulled out the sharp scalpel. Perfect. He could feel Emma staring at him, and when he turned, her eyes were frightened and pleading. He sighed. "I am not going to hurt you," he promised gently.

Now, what would be best? He doubted he would be able to drive this into his chest or skull with sufficient force to achieve instant death, so exsanguination would be his best chance. Wrists would take too long, he suspected, and throat reminded him too much of how his sister had died. A diagonal cut to the femoral artery. That should provide critical levels of bloodloss within five minutes.

He hoped in time Napoleon would forgive him.

* * *

He was walking towards medical, knowing that he couldn't stay. There was too much work to do for him to be able to sit at Illya's bedside the way he wanted to. But at least, he wanted to check in, and tell Illya that he wasn't alone, even if it felt that way.

Dr Meadows was still on duty. Napoleon nodded to him. "How is he?" he asked, without preamble.

"I'm just going in to check on him," Meadows said. "Apparently he's been quiet, and he hasn't been vocally expressing any further suicidal thoughts. It could be that the drug does wear off. A psychologist is going to sit with him first thing in the morning."

He doubted that would do any good if Illya wasn't willing to cooperate. "Don't trust quiet," he warned. "If he was actually feeling better, he'd be unruly and demanding to be released."

"I know," Meadows agreed with a slight smile. "Still, it might be a good sign."

No. Quiet either meant Illya was brooding or he was planning something. Neither of them were good signs right now.

A sudden thump caught his attention. His head snapped up.

"What was that?" Meadows asked, but Napoleon was already running. He reached the door to Illya's room and tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. Through the observation window he could see that the bed was empty, and the bedside table knocked over. Beside it, he could just see a pair of high heeled shoes, and a set of shapely ankles bound together, belonging to whoever had just kicked the table over.

No, no, no, no, no.

"Get the key!" Meadows bellowed from behind him.

No time for that. He grabbed the explosive buttons off his shirt sleeve and pressed them against the door. "Cover your eyes," he ordered sharply, and the second after the bang he was forcing the door open, barely registering the unconscious Section III agent just behind it, nor the frightened nurse lying tied up by a toppled chair, because he could see the pool of blood spreading from behind the bed...

Illya was lying on the floor, a scalpel in his hand, his eyes closed and his face deathly pale. The wound in his thigh was still spurting blood, and that meant that he was still alive, and Napoleon threw himself forwards, grabbing the sheet from the bed, applying pressure, because, God, Illya couldn't die now, Illya couldn't die -

The room was full of people and loud voices, and Dr Meadows was crouched beside him, applying a tourniquet. "Get ready to move him," he ordered to someone behind him. "Get the OR prepped and get four units of A- ready to transfuse. Napoleon, when I say, move your hands, okay?"

He nodded and watched, almost in a dream, as Illya was bundled away, the medical staff swarming over him. He couldn't help now.

His hands were sticky with warm blood.

Brennan was standing now, helping Emma to her feet. He looked at the pair of them. "What happened?" he asked, barely recognising the sound of his own voice through the ice.

"I...only left the room for a moment," Brennan faltered. "I had to use the facilities. Oh, God, Mr Solo, I'm _sorry._ I never...I mean, I'd never have left a prisoner like that, but it was Mr Kuryakin, and he was restrained anyway, and I thought...I mean, I didn't..."

"Right," Napoleon agreed harshly. "You didn't think. And because of you, an agent might be dying right now. And you!" He turned to Emma. "Were you in the room the whole time? How did he get out of those restraints?"

Her face was almost green. "He said they were hurting him. He just asked me to loosen them a little. I didn't think he'd be able to get out."

"And you didn't think they were that tight for a reason?" he spat, not caring that the tears were rolling down her cheeks. "You know, as Section II, we're out there risking our lives, but we trust that once we're in medical we're _safe._ And you - "

" - Mr Solo, that's quite enough," Mr Waverly said sternly. He was standing in the doorway, just as he had been yesterday, his eyes fixed on Napoleon. "Go and wait in my office."

Nothing he'd said was out of line. Nothing he'd said was a lie. He gave a curt nod. "Yes, sir."

But he didn't go to Waverly's office. Instead, he walked out of headquarters and walked three blocks before stopping at a payphone and making a call to a number he'd never dialled before. The voice that answered was unfamiliar and the message he left was curt. "Tell her to meet me in O'Malley's bar as soon as possible." He hung up before the questions started.

No one gave him a second glance as he walked into O'Malley's. It was that kind of place. He ordered a whisky, found a seat in the back and waited, soul burning, mind blank. His communicator sounded a couple of times, but he ignored it.

It was a couple of hours before he heard the sound of high heels delicately picking their way across the dirty floor. "This is hardly up to your usual standards for a date, Napoleon darling," Angelique said as she sat down, fastidiously pulling her fur coat up around her so it didn't touch the table.

"It is discreet," Napoleon rejoined. "So you got my message."

"Yes." She paused. "I didn't realise you knew that number."

"It's good that we have some secrets from each other," he said with a twist of a smile. "I imagine you can guess why I wanted to see you."

She leaned back. "The word is, you dragged your favourite sidekick out of the river yesterday," she said. "I would have thought you would have been sitting distraught by his bedside. Or is it already too late for that? There's blood on your shirt you know, darling."

Evenly, he buttoned his jacket. "I need to know where Dr Boothby is."

She smiled at him, all gleaming teeth. "All business? I really don't care for you in this mood, you know. You could at least take the time to tell me how beautiful I am."

Of course. He reached across the table and gently caressed her hand. "Ah, Angelique, you know you're always beautiful. And had I the time - "

" - oh, don't bother," she said crossly, pulling her hand away. "The last thing I want is you making love to me while you're thinking of _him._ That would be distasteful for all of us."

"Angelique, I need to know this," he said intently.

"You know, THRUSH Central would be very unhappy if I went around telling you things like that," she said, licking her lips in playful anticipation. It wasn't a no. Not yet.

"But this isn't your scheme," he pressed, thankful to see that there wasn't the slightest flicker on her face to disagree. "So what do you care about someone else getting ahead in the hierarchy? That just puts you further back."

"True," she agreed. "But that's hardly a good enough reason to throw away such a promising weapon. Or to save the life of an UNCLE agent who has been a constant thorn in our side, and doesn't even have the grace to be interesting with it. So." She eyed him keenly. "What are you willing to trade, darling? Secrets? Prisoners? You have to give me something good."

"You know I can't give you anything like that," he said.

"You can't meet with a known THRUSH agent either," she said with a sharp little laugh. "But here you are."

He smiled. "Technically, I'm off the clock right now."

She leaned forwards. "So what are you willing to give me to save your Illya's life?"

"A favour," he said evenly, gazing at her with open sincerity.

Cat-like, she pounced, clearly delighted at the thought of something she could hold over his head. "Anything I want? No questions asked?"

"No questions," he confirmed, and they both knew that he would try his best to negate whatever it was she asked, but they both also knew he would do it.

"Oh, well." She smiled. "I really didn't want to see that old lech Hanson get ahead anyway. Here you go, Napoleon, darling." She took a piece of paper out of her pocket and passed it across the table and he wasn't at all surprised to see that she'd already written the address out. "When you called, I did some digging. They're making sure Boothby's process can be replicated before they pass the formula on to Central. If you're quick, you should be able to shut the whole thing down and save the day. Do me a favour and put a bullet in Hanson's head, won't you? He was always looking at my legs."

"I can't say I blame him," he said with an admiring smile. "Thank you, Angelique."

She waved a hand dismissively. "I didn't do a thing. But you'll be hearing from me, darling. Soon."

No doubt. He left the bar quickly, trusting that she would linger for a while before making a move. He didn't think she'd tip Hanson off, but he would need to move quickly anyway.

He put in a call to Mr Waverly as he was heading across down to the address Angelique had given him. "Sir, I've got a location on Boothby," he said. "I'm heading there now. By the sounds of things, the formula still hasn't been passed on, so if we destroy this lab, that should be an end of the affair."

"Very good, Mr Solo," Mr Waverly said, and Napoleon noticed that he didn't ask where the information had come from. "Give me the address and I'll send a team to meet you there."

He did, and it was only then he forced himself to ask "How is Illya doing?"

"He's stable and out of surgery," Mr Waverly told him, and he closed his eyes in relief. "He should make a full recovery."

Provided Napoleon did his job and found a cure.

The address Angelique had given him was a skincare lab in an area of industrial buildings and workshops. Isolated enough and, judging by the number of cars in the parking lot, it couldn't be very heavily staffed or guarded. He scouted around the outside, taking note of the size of it, and other exits, until Louis Framer and Marco White caught up with him.

"Do we know how many are inside?" Marco asked at once.

"Unfortunately not," he said. "And we need to move quickly. You two head in through the front. Create a distraction at reception. I'll move in through the window at the back and try and locate the lab."

They nodded. "Of course," Louis said, and hesitated. "I'm sorry about Illya."

Not something he could think about right now. He was conscious of the blood still clinging to his shirt. "Yes. Keep in touch, I'll tell you when I'm in."

He didn't encounter much resistance. A couple of guards who were dispatched after the briefest of fights. The lab was on the second floor, a single guard waiting outside who didn't have the sense to simply surrender and stay out of Napoleon's way. Dr Boothby was waiting inside, a nondescript little man, staring at him nervously. "Wh-who are you?" he asked. "Stay back!"

"Napoleon Solo," he introduced himself with a smile. "I believe you met my partner yesterday, at the college?"

"Oh, God!" Boothby whimpered. "Hanson!"

Napoleon turned in time to see a burly man in his fifties come barrelling out of a door on the other side of the lab, and he barely had time to fling himself down behind the lab bench before Hanson started shooting.

Careless. He should have made sure they were alone. But the moment he'd seen Boothby, all he'd been able to think was that here was the man who had hurt Illya. He stayed down, counted the shots, and when he knew Hanson must be almost out, he kicked a stool across the floor, taking advantage of the split second when Hanson reacted to the movement, to stand and fire.

He saw Hanson fall and cautiously, approached the body, checking to be certain.

Well. Angelique had wanted him to kill Hanson. Hopefully this would please her.

Boothby had taken refuge under a bench in the back of the room. He was staring at Hanson's body with an expression of abstract terror. Evidently he preferred his death more distant, less visceral. Coldly, Napoleon approached him. "Now," he said. "What was I saying before we were so rudely interrupted? Ah, yes. I was reminding you of how you used your drug on a very dear friend of mine yesterday."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Boothby said robotically, his eyes fixed on the gun in Napoleon's hand.

"That was not the answer I wanted to hear," Napoleon said, reaching down and dragging him out.

"No!" Boothby cried out fearfully. "You're an UNCLE agent. You're the good guys, you need to take me alive and unharmed. That's how this works."

He raised an eyebrow and roughly turned Boothby to face Hanson's dead body. "Does that look alive and unharmed to you?" he asked rhetorically. "Sometimes I might have orders to take someone in alive. I can promise you, no one's given me that order regarding _you._ So really, there's only one reason why I might be persuaded to spare you."

"Name it! Anything!"

He felt a vague sense of disgust at the crawling. "My friend is still alive, no thanks to you. So I need the cure for whatever you did to him. And I need your formulas."

"Still alive?" Boothby repeated stupidly, as if the idea had never occurred to him. "But I gave him a quadruple dose..." He blinked up at Napoleon's face and somehow managed to pale even further, evidently recognising that this was not the way to endear himself. "Oh! Of course. I have the counter-agent here..." He dug frantically through a pile of papers before giving up and shoving them all in Napoleon's direction. "Those are all my notes. Everything I have. The counter-agent is in there, I promise. So you see, I'm on your side now." He smiled ingratiatingly. "So you'll let me go?"

"Letting you go was never an option," he said, his lip curled. "To my knowledge, you've killed seven people, and there's probably more I don't know about. You're spending the rest of your life in prison."

"No." He shook his head rapidly. "No, they killed themselves. I never laid a finger on them. I'm harmless. Harmless!"

He remembered the look in Illya's eyes, the blank, desperate despair with which he'd asked Napoleon to let him die, and with a shiver of revulsion, he raised his gun fractionally.

With a shriek, Boothby grabbed a syringe off the bench and ran towards him, waving it threateningly.

Napoleon shot him three times in the chest.

He exhaled slowly, and stood staring for a moment. He told himself he'd had no choice.

* * *

He delivered the notes and all the samples he could find to the lab and was relieved at their assurance that they should be able to make up the cure within a few hours. Finally.

Once he'd given a brief, verbal report he headed straight round to medical. Lorrimer was inside the room on guard, and he looked at Napoleon nervously. "Everything's been quiet, Mr Solo. I haven't taken my eyes off him. Not for a second."

He nodded. "That's fine. I'll take over for now."

"Of course, sir," Lorrimer said and Napoleon got the impression he was fighting with the urge to salute.

The restraints were back and there was a couple of IV lines leading into Illya's arm. His shoulders were half turned around, so he was facing away from the door and Napoleon frowned, knowing that must be uncomfortable, and afraid Illya must be hiding something, but it wasn't until he walked round to the other side of the bed that he saw exactly what. There were tears running silently down Illya's cheeks.

He stood for a moment, then he sighed and carefully took some tissue and silently blotted them away.

Illya met his eyes but said nothing.

"Hey," he said. "It's over. I killed the bad guys. The lab are brewing up some potion to cure you as we speak. Just hang on a few more hours and this will all be just some _awful_ memories, okay?"

"Please, Napoleon," Illya said in a whisper. "Let me die."

He took a deep breath. "No," he said. "Just hang on, okay, partner mine?"

There was a radio lying on top of the cabinet, probably left over from some other agent who'd been in here for a while. He tuned it in until he found a station playing soft jazz, then he sat back down and carefully laid his hand over Illya's. "I'm going to stay right here until you're feeling better," he told Illya. "I'm not going anywhere and neither are you. So you just keep fighting Hans and know that I've got your back. Because like it or not, you're my friend and I like having you around."

There were more tears threatening to fall. He squeezed Illya's fingers lightly.

"Did I ever tell you," he began with a careful smile. "About the time our unit commander tried to barbecue a general's goat?"

* * *

It wasn't a sudden realisation that life was wonderful, more of a gradual emerging from a very dark hole when the light was strange and confusing. The darker thoughts seemed to drift away and when he tried to chase them down, their certainty evaporated.

It was disconcerting. Only the sharp pain in his leg told him beyond all doubt that the last few days hadn't been a bad dream. He remembered the solidness of the knife in his hands and the relief and exhilaration at the heat of his blood pouring over his skin, and very quickly decided that those memories should be buried somewhere deep inside him and never, ever thought of again.

He turned his head. Napoleon had stopped talking for the moment, his eyes half closed. He was unshaven and looked exhausted, his chair tipped back against the wall. "I cannot believe they haven't sent you home," he said loudly.

Napoleon jumped and for an amused moment – and amusement! When had that returned? - Illya was certain he was going to overbalance. "Illya!" His smile was broad.

"Yes," he agreed. "I am still here and so are you, even though you should clearly be at home." Not that he wasn't very glad that Napoleon had stayed. Even if he hadn't appreciated it at the time the memories of the times when Napoleon _had_ been there were less massive and frightening than the memory of the times when he'd been alone.

Napoleon shrugged. "I made a nurse cry earlier. I think they're ignoring me."

"You made a nurse cry?" he repeated and he was about to make some smart remark when he saw Napoleon's smile flicker. "I suspect I don't want to know, do I?"

"No," Napoleon told him shortly. He leaned forwards. "How are you feeling?"

He considered the question for a second, recognising that he owed Napoleon honesty. "Not fine," he admitted. "But alive and intent on staying that way."

"That's a good start," Napoleon nodded.

"Yes," he agreed. He hesitated. "I should say thank you. And that I am sorry."

Napoleon shook his head determinedly. "No. To both. It wasn't you."

"It felt like me," he said. "It was like..." All the good things had been twisted beyond recognition and all the bad things had been magnified, and every little thought that haunted him at three o'clock in the morning after an assignment had gone bad had been the absolute and undeniable truth. He shook his head. "No. It does not matter. It wasn't me, it was the drug." He spoke firmly; it was the truth and the sooner he could come to accept it the better.

Napoleon looked at him, his head tilted to the side. "You want to talk about it?"

"Do you?" he countered. "I remember what you told me about your father, after the river."

He saw the flicker cross Napoleon's face – regret? Grief? He wasn't sure.

He sighed. "Maybe. Some day. When we have vodka, we are not in a building that is wired for sound, and I am wearing pants."

"You always have the most absurd stipulations," Napoleon told him lightly. "I really can't think why I put up with it."

"Admit it, you would miss having me around," he said dryly, and he knew immediately it was far too soon for that kind of joke.

" _Yes,_ " Napoleon breathed, and he could hear the raw fear and grief beneath the word.

"I have no intention of going anywhere," he promised steadily and after a moment Napoleon nodded. "And speaking of which," he added, shaking the restraints meaningfully. Truthfully, there was a part of him that wanted them to stay – a part of him that was frightened at the memories of what his own mind and hands had done. But he wasn't going to start listening to the fear.

Napoleon nodded again and Illya suspected there was a similar war raging behind his eyes. "I'll go and talk to the doctor," he said. "Wait there."

"Funny," Illya called after him. "Very funny."

He took a deep breath. He was alive. And that was good.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, I do hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think.**


End file.
